I Must Confess

[synnerxx]

Title: I Must Confess
Rating: R
Fandom: Sons Of Anarchy
Pairing: Chibs/Tig
Warnings: Graphic violence, self harm, disturbing imagery of blood, insanity, murder, attempted (though not completely intentional) suicide
Notes: Originally written for this year's spook_me but I fail at deadlines. Much thanks to dr_jasley for encouraging me throughout the writing of this fic and telling me that it was indeed very creepy. Written while listening to Monster by Skillet and Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace on repeat.
Prompt: Maniac at spook_me
Summary: I keep it caged, but I can't control it



There is blood running down his arms. He isn't sure if it's his or it belongs to the man before him. The blood drips down his fingertips and he twitches them, flicking the droplets away. He stares down at the body at his feet and feels nothing. The rush of adrenaline and anger and terror is gone. All of is just gone. He doesn't know what went on. He can't remember. His head hurts. His chest is tight, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. What has he done?

He raises his hands in front of his face and stares at them as if he's never seen them before. They're covered in blood, the red now a black in the darkness of the night. Why can't he remember what happened? He knows he went out by himself, out of Charming, to a bar to get away for a while. He remembers drinking alone at the bar, remembers heading outside to his bike before he got too drunk. He remembers hearing a woman scream for help in the alleyway beside the bar.

After that, it's just nothing. He doesn't remember what happened after he heard the woman scream. He's pretty sure the man in front of him is dead. There's no way he's still alive with that much blood pooling underneath his body anyway. He looks around. The woman is gone. (When did she leave?) He's not at the bar anymore. He's not sure where he is. His bike isn't too far away, parked beside a truck which he assumes belongs to the man.

He looks down at his hands again. Why is there so much blood? What happened? He groans and wishes he could remember. All he remembers is the rush of anger, the rush of power, and the scent of blood, metallic and thick in the air. That's it. No real clues for him work with. He cleans up the area as best he can, erasing any trace that he was ever there and leaves with a roar of his motorcycle.

His first instinct is to go to the clubhouse, but he shoves that aside and heads to his apartment. He needs a shower. The blood is drying on his skin, becoming itchy and flaky and he's sure his clothes are coated in it. It's going to be a bitch getting it off of his cut. That's when he realises he's not wearing the heavy leather.

He unlocks the door and notices that his hands are shaking. He's trembling and that's not like him at all. He clenches his hands into fists, the keys stabbing into his palm. He loosens his grip and steps inside. He closes the door behind him and heads into the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and stares at his reflection in the mirror. His face is pale and spattered with blood. His eyes are wide and haunted, dark circles ringing them. He doesn't look like himself at all.

He washes his hands off, finally getting the blood off of his skin. It swirls down the drain, turning the water a pale pink as it goes. A tiny amount of blood remains along his nails and he glares at it. The door opens and he turns to look at the person framed in the door way.

“Where the hell have you been?” Chibs' accent is thicker than usual with sleep. He blinks and then stares in shock at the state of Tig's clothing.

“What the hell happened, Tig?” Chibs reaches for him, intent on helping him, but Tig stumbles backwards.

His head is spinning, but he knows he can't let Chibs or anyone else near him until he gets himself under control. Chibs drops his hands and eyes Tig carefully.

“Tigger, it's just me. Let's get you out of those clothes and you tell me what happened, okay?” He makes his voice as soothing as he can. He's never seen Tig like this before. He looks frantic and desperate, scared even. Like a wounded animal trapped in a cage with no way out. It's startling to say the least.

Tig's clothes are covered in blood, but Chibs can't tell if it's Tig's or someone else's blood. He isn't wearing his cut either, but Chibs vaguely remembers seeing it on the couch when he came in earlier that night. There's blood smeared on his jeans and his shirt, dark patches of it on his chest and stomach. Chibs has never seen Tig look like this. Not even after a fight does he look this bad.

“Tig, what happened, brother?” Chibs keeps his voice soft as he talks to Tig, moving slowly towards him again.

“I don't know.” Tig's voice is rough and hoarse. He doesn't move away from Chibs again, but he does flinch when Chibs' hands brush against him, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Where did all this blood come from?” Chibs gently pushes the shirt off of Tig's shoulders and Tig lets it fall off of his arms, pulling them out of it and dropping it carelessly to the floor.

“The man, I guess.” Tig says, not meeting Chibs' eyes.

“What man?” Chibs asks, moving on to undoing Tig's button and zipper on his jeans.

“There was a man and a woman. She screamed. Then the man was on the ground in front of me and I don't know how he got there. The woman was gone too. I don't remember.” Tig shoves Chibs' hands away and rakes his fingers through his hair.

“Why can't I remember?” Tig yanks on his hair and Chibs worries for a moment that he's gonna start pulling out chunks of it when Tig stands up suddenly.

“I think I killed him. It was messy, but I must have killed him. But why? How? Why can't I remember any of this?” Tig groans, collapsing onto the edge of the bathtub.

“Did you take anything, Tig? Drink more than usual?” Chibs asks carefully.

“No. I had a few shots and a couple of beers at the bar and I remember all of that, but I don't remember what happened with the man!” Tig snaps, a desperate edge to his voice that Chibs has never heard before.

“We'll figure this out. What did you do with the body?” Chibs asks, resting his hands on Tig's shoulders.

“Left it there. It was in an abandoned field anyway. No one should be able to tell I was there anyway.” Tig murmurs, voice muffled from behind his hands.

“We gotta tell Clay.” Chibs says reasonably. If this shit blows back on them, Clay will need to know beforehand.

Tig nods slowly, fingers relaxing their grip on his hair. “Okay, but I still don't remember. How can I not remember? It's like a giant hole in my memory.”

“We'll worry about that later. For now, let's get you cleaned up and into bed, okay?” Chibs leans around Tig and turns the shower on.

Tig nods and stands on his own and Chibs leaves him to take a shower on his own, heading back into the bedroom.

Tig finishes stripping off his jeans and boxers and steps into the shower, sighing at the heat of the water. He leans against the tiled wall and lets the water run over his skin, reveling in the sensation. He closes his eyes and memories begin to play out in his mind's eye.

The man throws a punch that catches Tig on his jaw. Tig growls and launches himself forward, tackling the guy to the ground. He slams his fist repeatedly into the guy's face until it's just a mask of blood. The woman is sobbing behind them and, distantly, Tig hears her leave, calling them both crazy and other names that he isn't paying attention to at the moment.

All his focus is on the blood, red and slick and hot, on his hands.

Tig gasps, scrambling at the wet wall for purchase as he is jolted from the memory. He nearly slips, but catches himself on the shower curtain and pants harshly, one hand pressed against his chest in an attempt to calm his frantically beating heart. It feels like it wants to burst right out of his chest. A few minutes later, he feels calm enough to finish his shower and he washes up quickly, no longer enjoying the hot spray.

He turns the shower off and gets out, reaching for the towel he knows Chibs has left out for him on the counter. The shower had helped somewhat and he's starting to feel normal, well, normal for him. Now he's exhausted, the deep down kind of tired you feel in your very bones and all he wants to do is collapse into bed and sleep forever.

He staggers into the bedroom with the towel around his waist and sees Chibs already in bed, smoking a joint, waiting for him. He pulls out a pair of boxers and slides them on, crawling into his side of the bed and taking a hit off the joint when Chibs offers it to him.

“Remember anything?” Chibs asks mildly, as if it doesn't really matter.

“No.” Tig exhales the smoke.

Chibs nods as if he expected that and takes another hit off the joint before Tig plucks it from his hand again.

“How do you feel?” Chibs inhales on the joint.

“Tired. I'm fucking exhausted.” Tig groans, pulling the blankets up on his chest.

Chibs puts the joint out in the ashtray he has in his lap and moves it to the nightstand, settling down next to Tig.

“We'll talk to Clay tomorrow. Make sense of everything then, okay?” Chibs says, leaning over and turning off the lamp.

“If you say so.” Tig's already half-asleep by now.

Chibs kisses him, grinning at the sleepy kiss he gets in return and lays down, throwing an arm across Tig.

They'll talk to Clay in the morning and he'll know what to do. Everything will make more sense then and Tig might even remember what happened after a night of sleep. Tig doesn't put so much faith into as Chibs does, but he settles down and lets sleep claim him anyway.

Blood. Blood everywhere. Thick, red, and hot. It's on his hands, on his clothes, all around him. The man's screams have long since stopped. All Tig wants is more blood. He cackles gleefully at the sight of it. All he ever wants is to see and feel, yes feel, the blood of everyone. It's so hot and slick and it feels so nice sliding between his fingers.

Tig jerks awake, eyes wide and searching, sweat coating his body. Chibs is still asleep next to him, snoring softly, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting on Tig's chest. All he can see is all the red, red blood from the dream and he's shaking, cold suddenly, afraid. He's never felt this afraid before. Hell, he's not usually afraid of anything.

There's a pressure in the back of his mind. Not a voice or even thoughts, at least not fully formed ones, but just this pressure in his mind that weighs him down. It wants something, craves it, but he doesn't know what. That's a lie. He knows what it wants. It wants blood and he's refusing to give it that. It wants blood. More blood. All the time. He ignores it for the most part, but sometimes, sometimes it's impossible to ignore and it takes over.

He shoves Chibs' arm off of him and dashes into the bathroom, barely making it before he heaves and his stomach empties the alcohol from last night. He's not hungover, he didn't drink enough for that, but the memories are coming back to him. He gags against the hot bile rising in his throat, coughing and choking until it's over. He sighs and reaches up to flush it, leaning back against the wall weakly.

Chibs is there in front of him the next time he blinks. He offers him the mouthwash and Tig takes a swig straight from the bottle, swishing it around in his mouth, grateful to have the taste out. He leans over and spits into the toilet, not wanting to stand for a moment. Chibs hands him a damp wash cloth and Tig wipes his mouth and face off, panting slowing down now.

“Hungover?” Chibs asks, sounding amused.

“Yeah.” Tig lies easily.

Chibs snorts and reaches down, offering his hand to Tig. Tig lets himself be pulled up and led back into the bedroom where Chibs gently pushes him down on the edge of the bed and hands him two Advil which do nothing to relive the pressure in his head because it's not really there, is it? He's just crazy and it's not pain that can be cured with pills. Not these pills anyway.

He presses his fingertips to his forehead and sighs. He's just stressed. That's all it is. A nasty little voice pipes up, whispering in his ear. You sure about that, Tiggy?

He ignores it and downs the rest of the water in the glass Chibs had brought him. Chibs is getting dressed, tugging on a shirt and buttoning it. Tig watches him blankly. An image appears in his mind, unbidden and unwanted.

Chibs laying in a pool of his own blood. A pretty abstract design on the white wall behind him in red. The slickness coats Tig's hands again, hot and thick as always. It never changes. Blood is the same in everyone. Chibs' just looks prettier somehow. Tig looks down at Chibs, laying there, covered in his own life. Tig leans down and presses his lips to Chibs'. They're still warm. They taste like blood now, metallic and salty. It's fitting that his last taste of Chibs should be the taste of blood. It's all he ever wanted, after all.

“Tig, are you okay?” Chibs' worried voice snaps him back into the present.

He stares up at Chibs, who's alive and not covered in blood, and flinches away from him. “No.”

Chibs reaches for him, but Tig crawls back on the bed, desperate not to feel Chibs' hands on him. The pressure in his head grows more insistent and this time Tig knows what it wants. It wants Chibs' blood. Never before had it wanted a specific person. Just blood. Always wanting more and more blood. This time is different though. It wants Chibs' blood.

“Tig?” Chibs questions, watching him move farther away from him.

“It wants you now. I don't know why, but it wants you.” Tig rubs at his temples, trying to relieve the pressure.

“What wants me? What are you talking about?” Chibs says, confused.

“The pressure. It wants your blood. You have to go.” Tig pulls at his hair, fingers tangling in it.

“Tig, you're not making any sense.” Chibs stops at the foot of the bed and stares at Tig.

“Just go!” Tig screams, eyes wild and desperate.

“Okay, okay. I'm leaving.” Chibs says, holding up his hands and backing out the bedroom door.

He snatches his cell phone up from the kitchen table and slips his cut on, calling Clay as he heads out the door. “Meet me at the clubhouse now. It's an emergency.”

He snaps the phone shut and rushes out the front door and to his bike. He rides away with a roar of the engine and it's the hardest thing he's ever done, leaving Tig alone in the bedroom to face whatever demons he's got in his own head.

Tig has pressed himself into the far corner of the room, knees drawn up to his chest, chin resting on top of them, arms curled around them. His eyes are shut tight. The pressure is so heavy in his head. It's weighing him down, making it hard to think of anything except what it wants, what it craves.

Blood.

All it wants is blood. Red, hot, slick. It shoves these images into Tig's head forcefully. Images of his friends, of his brothers laying before him, covered in red.

Clay. Jax. Bobby. Happy. Opie. Piney. Kozik. Gemma. Tara. Dawn. Fawn. Chibs again. All of them laying in pools of their own blood, bodies lifeless and coated in it.

Tig presses his hands against his eyes so hard, fireworks erupt behind his eyelids and a dull pain throbs in his head, pressing against the pressure. He moves his hands and blinks against the spots that dance in his vision. The pressure returns, heavier than ever, slamming into the back of his skull.

He manages to get to his feet, bracing himself back against the wall. He leans on it for a moment, catching his breath and pushing against the pressure, trying to force it down. He staggers out of the bedroom, one hand held out and trailing along the wall to keep his balance, and heads for the kitchen. The pressure wants blood? Well, it'll get blood then.



Chibs slams into the clubhouse and Clay is already heading towards him, Jax a step behind him. “What's going on?”

“It's Tig. He needs help. I don't know what to do.” Chibs pants, leading the way back out to the bikes.

“What's he doing?” Jax asks, glancing between Clay and Chibs.

“He keeps talking about this pressure in his head and blood and he's starting to freak me out. Demanded that I leave. He seemed terrified that he was going to hurt me or something. I don't know. We gotta get back to him.” Chibs gets back on his motorcycle and puts his helmet on, Clay and Jax following suit.

They take off down the street to Tig's apartment. They're going well beyond the speed limit, but none of them care. Tig needs them and that's all that matters. They park their bikes and rush into the apartment. Chibs is first and he freezes in the doorway, nearly making Jax and Clay slam into his back.

“What the fuck happened here?” Clay demands.

Blood coats the walls like some morbid paint job. It's dripped across the floor, a trail of it going from the kitchen to the bedroom. It's smeared along the wall as though someone dipped their hand in it and dragged it across the wall.

“Tig?” Chibs calls out. He leads them into the bedroom, carefully avoiding the blood on the floor.

There's no answer and Chibs nudges the door open with the toe of his boot. There's blood all over the doorknob, the dull yellow-gold now a deep red.

“Tigger?” Clay follows Chibs into the bedroom, Jax behind them.

“Jesus Christ.” Chibs breathes.

Blood is everywhere. It soaks the bed and paints the walls in broad splatters as if someone had flicked a paintbrush at the walls. There's even some on the ceiling and Chibs doesn't even want to know how it got there.

“I thought I told you to go away.” A harsh whisper breaks the silence and they all flinch. Chibs peers into the corner by the bed and Tig is there, sprawled on the floor, his hunting knife cradled loosely in one hand. He's covered in blood and is still bleeding from several lacerations.

“What have you done?” Jax asks, staring wide eyed at his Sergeant-At-Arms.

Tig turns his head in Jax's direction. “It wanted blood, so I gave it blood.”

Clay whips out his cell phone and calls 911. He's not sure how Tig is conscious, much less alive after he's seen all the blood that's in the apartment, but that doesn't matter. What matters is making sure Tig stays alive.

Chibs leans down next to Tig, dragging the sheet from the bed down with him. He rips up several pieces and hands them to Jax, so he can begin to put pressure on the wounds and maybe stop some of the bleeding.

Clay snaps his phone shut. “Ambulance is on the way.”

“Good. Hang in there, Tiggy.” Chibs ties the knot of the tourniquet on Tig's upper arm and smooths back some of the unruly black curls from Tig's forehead before working on the next one.

“Why did you do this?” Jax asks Tig.

“I told you.” Tig murmurs, words slurring together.

Clay stares down at Tig, an unreadable expression on his face. Before anyone can say anything else, the
paramedics arrive and hustle Tig into the ambulance.

Clay, Jax, and Chibs follow on their motorcycles. They aren't allowed to follow Tig back into surgery, though Chibs tries. Jax steps in between him and the orderly before the orderly gets himself knocked out for preventing Chibs from following Tig, resting his hands on Chibs' shoulders.

“He'll make it. He's strong.” Jax says, leading Chibs back to the waiting room.

Tara joins them a few minutes later. “What's going on? I heard they brought Tig in an ambulance, that he had several serve, self inflicted lacerations.”

“We don't know. Found him like that.” Jax wraps an arm around her shoulders, more for his comfort than hers.

Chibs stares blankly at the cup of coffee Jax had shoved into his hands to keep him somewhat occupied while Clay paces in front of them as they wait for news.

Tara leaves for a surgery and some indeterminable amount of time passes. Chibs, at least, as no idea how long it's been since they arrived at the hospital. A doctor walks up to them, green scrubs turned a deep red from Tig's blood.

“Well, he's in a coma right now. Four blood transfusions later and he's stable. We don't know when or even if he'll wake up from the coma or the extent of the damage to his nerves, if there is any. All the lacerations are stitched up. There were several along both arms, across his chest and stomach and down his legs. For now, he's stable and in his room.” The doctor explains, looking apologetic.

“Can we see him?” Chibs asks.

The doctor looks unsure, then catches the dark look Clay sends his way. “Yes, room 414.”

They thank the doctor and head towards Tig's room.

Chibs walks in first, staring at the all the wires and various machines attached to Tig. Tig looks way too pale and small laying there in the hospital bed, stitches criss-crossing both arms.

“We'll be outside if you need us.” Jax squeezes Chibs' shoulder briefly as Clay rests his hand on Chibs' arm before following Jax out of the room.

“Tigger, what did you do to yourself? What kind of demons do you have?” Chibs takes a seat in the armchair and scoots it closer to the bed, holding Tig's cold hand, carefully of the IV leading out of.



Blood, blood everywhere. It's hot and slick on his hands and he laughs, looking down at his hands as they drip red, red, red onto the floor. Bodies lay in front of him. There's Clay Jax, Gemma, and Tara. Piney and Opie are over there by the bar. So much blood. A sea of it on the clubhouse floor.

Bobby is over by the pool table, Happy beside him. More red blood flowing out of them and over to him. He laughs again, reaching down and feeling the fading heat of the blood on the floor.

They're all dead, dead, dead. Never to come back, but all the precious red blood is his now. It's all he ever wanted and they were so kind as to give it to him.

Chibs lays on top of the bar, eyes wide and unseeing as they stare up at the ceiling. He's covered in blood too. His is special because he made Tig feel something for someone. Made him think he could love someone. No, he just loves the blood. Red, dead.

Words echo in his mind. There's a thick haze of fog surrounding him, but he feels like there's something or someone reaching out to him and pulling him towards something. Out of the fog. Someone is calling his name. There are more voices too. Not just the one trying to help him. The words jumble over each other and soon all he can hear is the dark whisper. It drowns out the sound of the person trying to help him out of his own mind.

Who is that anyway? They sound so familiar....

The voice gets attention again. It just repeats itself over and over again until it's all Tig knows.

Red

Red

Red

Dead

Dead

Dead